


Kidnapped

by Rachel24601



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Abduction, Action & Romance, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, Investigations, Kidnapping, Suspense, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24355546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachel24601/pseuds/Rachel24601
Summary: What if Michael had become a CIA consultant, without ever going to Fox River or breaking his brother out of prison? What if Sara was kidnapped by the company because of her father’s political involvements, and Michael was the man to bring her back home safe? AU. Mi/Sa.
Relationships: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Comments: 46
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

1

It was not the first time Sara woke up with her hands tied.

Not a very dignified confession to make, but there it was.

For a second, through the fog of her emerging awareness, Sara thought this was just one of these situations.

There’d be vomit in the sheets – hers? His? – she’d try to press a palm to her forehead, where a second heartbeat seemed to have made its nest, but there would be that familiar rattling of metal against metal, the steel bracelet of a sex-toy-purchased handcuff against the bedpost. Only toys. She could get the cuffs open by pulling a tiny lever at the base.

Sara blinked, clarity came in waves, and she realized the bonds tying her hands were plastic, unusual as far as kinks went. And anyway, she hadn’t been sleeping with anyone, kinky or classic, in a very long time; for as long as she’d been sober, in fact.

So, there was just no way that this –

“Please, don’t feel alarmed, Sara.”

A calm, reptilian voice spoke.

She forced her eyes open and tried to see the world through the slit of her eyelids.

Why did she feel like her lashes were weighed down by lead, why was her throat sore with dehydration –

_Drugs_.

Of course.

Alarm gained her, but its course was made uncertain by the numbness in her body.

This was just like emerging from one of her highs –

_No, impossible_ , she pleaded against logic.

She’d been sober for years, didn’t even feel _tempted_ by drugs anymore, only a ghost-like tickling in her arm at the sight of needles, the way the body reacts to the sight of snakes when it’s been bitten once before.

The blurred veil before her eyes thawed slowly and she was able to distinguish the room about her: a bedroom, taken from an apparently chic apartment, furbished flooring, paintings on the walls, and yes, silk-soft bedcovers against her cheek.

Bed?

Sara straightened up, had not been aware she had been lying down. To reach a half-sitting position sent her head into a mad spin, and her balance was worse because her hands were bound behind her back.

Then, at once, she saw him –

A man, sitting in an armchair, a few steps from the door. It was incredible she hadn’t seen him before, and now, it was impossible to will her eyes away.

It flashed through her mind she might have been roofied and raped, but she dismissed the thought calmly enough.

A rapist wouldn’t have needed to drug her _and_ tie her up, and he wouldn’t have stuck around for her to see his face, which was unmasked.

It was a slightly round, pleasant-enough face, with a dark stubble and blue eyes, the sort of face you wanted to find harmless.

The man got up. Sara noticed he was wearing a suit – adding comfortable grips Sara could get a hold of as she fumbled toward an understanding of the situation.

Her pulse was wild, and she did feel afraid as the man stepped closer to the bed where she was sitting. But with every second, the chances of his being a sex-crazed maniac decreased.

Sara was not stupid, and she could make an educated guess.

Her father was the governor of Illinois. She had obviously been kidnapped, and her kidnapper was wearing four thousand dollars’ worth of fabric on him.

This looked everything like those situations her father had warned her against when she was little –

‘I’m an important man, Sara. People might be ready to do a lot of things to get to me. Awful things.’

While the other girls in her class only got the talk about candy-luring strangers in their cars, Sara had gotten the one about professional kidnappers as well.

Oddly, it felt ridiculous that this should happen _now_ , when she was a grown woman, nearing thirty – when she hadn’t spoken to her father in over six months, and he was so detached from her everyday life, the relevance of those warnings had seemed completely vanished.

“Now, please,” the man said, “I don’t want you to panic. Panicking will do you no good. Trust me.”

Sara swallowed. The man stopped a couple of steps away from the bed.

She held eye-contact even though her eyes felt burning, even though she had to crane her neck upwards to look up at him.

_Please, lord, let me sound calm._

If she started breaking down now, then she really would feel like a teenage girl – like the kidnapped daughter she was.

“I take it,” she said, “this is about my father.”

A hint of approval went over the man’s face. Relieved she didn’t start crying. That made two of them.

“Yes. I’m going to untie you now. I just wanted to make sure you were in your right mind and didn’t do something stupid. You _won’t_ , Sara?”

It was wrong he should say her name like that, when she didn’t have any label to put on him and make him less impressive.

But those childhood lectures came back to her now. _If you ever find yourself with bad people, you should do what they tell you, just what they tell you._

“I won’t.”

He walked around the bed and moved behind her. He put one knee on the mattress, but it didn’t creak under his weight; this was a quality prison. Sara bit the inside of her lip to hold herself back from voicing her disgust and fear – she could feel the meat of his face behind her, his breath, warm, then a blade cut into the plastic binds around her wrists, and he was walking back to face her. Looking compassionate, not sorry.

Sara brought her hand into her lap and resisted the need to rub or even look at the pink skin of her wrists.

It didn’t hurt that bad, and she didn’t want to show weakness in front of him.

“Are you going to tell me what I’m doing here?”

“There’s not much I can say that you haven’t guessed. I work for people who are hoping to secure your father’s cooperation on – a certain business.”

“ _Important_ business, I take it.”

He laughed.

Yes, actually laughed.

He looked glad to have gotten her untying out of the way, relieved that she wasn’t sobbing into her pillow right now, that they could both act like civilized people and have a pleasant chat.

“Yes,” he said. “Important. Really, you don’t have anything to be afraid of. I know this is going to sound, eh – a little cruel,” he winced at the word, “but this is almost a formality. Your father will fall in line. Everyone does – my employer can be persuasive.”

“I don’t suppose I can know who your employer is. Can I know who _you_ are?” She asked when he gave her an insufferable tilt of the head to indicate she’d guessed right.

“Oh, I’m afraid my identity’s just as classified as those I work for. But don’t worry,” like she _had_ been worrying about that, “I’m not just going to go about without giving you any name to call me. You can call me – Lance,” he suggested.

She couldn’t say whether he’d come up with the name beforehand. He seemed to find the idea terrific.

“You probably need rest – I’m going to get you something to eat. First, I just want to make it clear what the rules are, so we can both get through this without hitting any bumps along the road. I just _hate_ surprises, Sara.”

His smile was just like those of TV presenters, every time he opened his mouth, she half-expected he was going to say “Good _morn_ ing, America.”

And she wished he would stop saying her name like that.

“This,” he embraced the room with his hand, “is where you’re going to be staying for the next few days. It shouldn’t be longer than a few days,” reassuringly. “The door behind you,” Sara turned around, “leads to a private bathroom. You should be comfortable. You can watch TV – you’ll find the remote in the bedside table drawer, along with some reading.”

He smirked. It was probably a Bible.

“For as long as this lasts, we’re going to live a little like roomies. I’ll lock you in. I’ll be on the other side of that door, so you can holler if you need me. Just wait this out, and nothing bad will happen to you – you can trust me.”

“You said that already.”

He sighed, lenient, and started toward the door. “Yes. Never easy to start trusting people, I know.”

_People who’ve kidnapped you_ , she thought, wanted to scream the words.

She bit her lip again.

Much as she hated it, cooperation was probably the smart move here.

“But you’ll see,” he said, his hand on the knob. “There’s nothing you have to fear from me. I’m a nice guy. No temper at all. It’s all up to your father, and he’ll do the right thing. Don’t do anything to screw this up, and the next few days will be like a breeze. Okay?”

He wanted her to say it.

Her eyes were poison, and she could tell he saw it – saw as she mastered her anger and answered, “Okay.”

“Good. Try to rest, now. I’ll get breakfast ready.”

He flashed her a grin and was gone.

2

Right around the same time that Sara Tancredi was waking up, tied up, in some strange room, Michael Scofield was getting a phone call from Frank Tancredi’s people; he picked up on the first ring, without sounding sleepy. He hadn’t been sleeping.

His interlocutor was vague but direct. Would he agree to meet Governor Tancredi, immediately, without asking questions? A car would wait for him before his building in ten minutes if he said yes.

Michael was intrigued but not very surprised.

Not because things like that happened every day when you were a CIA consultant – but because not a great deal of things surprised him.

He had worked for Tancredi half a dozen times and met him only twice, but he had made a good impression. The governor had recognized him as an exceptionally smart young man, and thought to call him when he needed someone in his line of work.

Today was the first time that he asked for such a short notice appointment.

Michael had a lot of work planned for today, but it was regular paperwork – nothing urgent. And he could tell, because of the strange request alone, that whatever Frank Tancredi’s business was with him, it was an emergency.

The car that waited for him on the other side of the street, as he got out of his building, was an unostentatious black Sedan. Michael got in, and sure enough, there was Governor Frank Tancredi sitting next to him, in the backseat.

It was a little surreal, but surreal things happened to Michael, all the time.

“Governor.”

“Mr. Scofield.”

The two men had always shaken hands before, when they met each other; but this morning, Frank seemed to have hardly gotten through his salutation without jumping to the heart of the affair. Michael could sense his hurry and simply waited for him to speak, leaving him the floor entirely.

“My apologies if I’ve taken you off guard. The circumstances demand –”

“It’s perfectly all right, governor. Please, state your business.”

Frank looked relieved and got on with it. “The fact of the matter is, men in my position sometimes have to deal with nasty people, Mr. Scofield. We don’t like it. But that’s how it is. Can’t win if you don’t play the game, and they’re just – they’re just a part of it. It’s a packaged deal.” He waved his hand, wordlessly saying, _Anyway_. “A couple of weeks ago, some of these people – you’ll forgive me for not being more specific – well, some of these people approached me about a law that’s to be signed into state law at the end of the month. The one about gun-control – you’ve heard, I assume.”

Michael merely nodded so the governor could resume as quickly as possible.

“Being a staunch Republican, as you know, I’m not very fond of the reform. But it’s made it through both houses and they should be able to come to an agreement. The people who came to me – well. Let’s say they made it clear they were not _favorable_ to it.”

Though he looked calm as ever, Michael’s brain was a whirlwind of arrow-sharp reflections. Was the NRA trying to sway state executives? Nothing surprising there. But Michael didn’t think Frank would have been so secretive about those people’s identity if they were _just_ NRA officials – then who? Affiliates? Private investors?

“In fact, they suggested it would be better if I vetoed the legislation. Now, you might not be aware that this goes against my personal principles. I’ve never vetoed a law that had made it both through the house and the senate, not once. The chief executive should make sure the law is properly followed, not bend it when he finds it convenient –” He waved his hand again, another, _Anyway_.

Michael had never seen the governor of Illinois in this state. The man was clearly unhinged.

“I said no. They were _unhappy_ about it.”

Again, Michael only waited; the real problem, which this little story was clearly only the preamble of, should be coming anytime now.

Frank Tancredi sighed.

Michael noted that, for the first time since he had met the man, he looked _old_. Up close, his face had a wide, haggard look, and he was whiter than usual. He looked like he was walking and talking only in a dream, and everything that happened there was only as real as that dream.

“An hour ago, I received a call issued from my daughter’s cell phone. We don’t talk very often, and she would never call me at an inappropriate hour unless something were important.”

Michael took in a sharp intake of air. Now, he was beginning to understand. Until this morning, he had never imagined Frank Tancredi had a daughter – the families of politicians are generally made a big deal out of, they play the role of a nice background to the campaign of the patriarch.

Certainly, Frank’s image could use the softening touch of a daughter.

But Michael had never seen her face anywhere, in papers or hanging from a frame in the governor’s office. He would have remembered.

“Did you speak to your daughter?” He asked.

Frank looked at him in surprise.

He had fallen silent and lost himself into his own thoughts. It seemed he couldn’t connect his brain with the current situation – what he was doing here, sitting in front of Michael. In some part of Frank’s brain, maybe, in one of the other realities he was exploring, he was having breakfast with his daughter right at this moment.

“Did you speak to her, or only to her kidnappers?”

Frank closed his mouth. A look of relief flashed over his face – Michael had spared him from speaking the details of a situation which he couldn’t fully reconcile himself with.

“Only to them,” he said.

That was a bad start, but Frank didn’t need to hear that. Instead, Michael asked, “Exactly what is it you want from me, governor? This must be a great ordeal to you – and trust me, I’ll assist you however I can. But I need to know what you’re hiring me to do.”

Frank’s lips became a thin line on his face. “I _cannot_ let these men blackmail me. I have made my name based on certain principles – I can’t simply violate them without justification. I would be ruined.”

Michael was silent.

Frank could do without his judgment at such a time.

“And I cannot let them do to my daughter what they threaten, if I don’t do as they say.”

The features on Frank’s face were screwed together until he looked wrinkled as an old lemon. He still hadn’t answered Michael’s question, and the young man waited patiently until he did.

“ _Find_ her.” He said. “Please. Find her and bring her home safely. If you do this for me, Mr. Scofield, I will give you anything you wish.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hope you enjoy this chapter. The quotes at the end are taken respectively from Matthew 7:15 and Acts 12:7. Is quoting the Bible in a Prison Break fanfiction taking the world of fanfiction too seriously? I think not ;-). Besides, so many biblical references are woven into the show… But that’s enough digressions. Enjoy, and share your thoughts in the comment section!

1

It was funny how the fragments of a life piled up in somebody’s apartment could _reflect_ a person when you paid attention, like Michael did.

Shelves crowded with books, anatomy and biology for the main part, but at the bottom there were a dozen worn, visibly over-read novels, Hardy, Eliot, Stevenson.

No framed pictures except for a group photograph on high school graduation. Frank Tancredi had provided Michael with more than enough details for him to recognize Sara as the tall, smiling redhead in the background.

He picked up the frame and looked as closely into the young trusting eyes as was possible.

Pangs crept up his chest, warning him not to get lost in anger, at the simple thought that there were people evil enough to kidnap a young woman all for the sake of making tons of money out of gun sales.

He put down the picture.

“Well, what’d you think?”

Michael turned back to his brother. “Doesn’t look like there’s been a struggle,” he said.

“Nope. I just checked out the bedroom. The bed’s unmade, aside from that, there’s nothing out of order. Nothing broken.”

“Of course not. These guys are pros.”

Lincoln joined him in his contemplation of the photograph hanging from the wall for a short while.

Unlike Michael, Lincoln had no direct links to speak of with the CIA. He was, in his own words, “a straight-up cop”, and he often joked he had had little choice in the matter. “The way I work,” he said, “the military was the only thing that was gonna stop me from spreading mayhem everywhere I went. I like trouble _too_ much. My brain’s too prone to stray toward the uncharted paths.” Often, at this point, he’d give a shrug that meant, _What you gonna do?_ “After a whole childhood spent being a troublemaker, I figured, if I didn’t straighten myself up, I was just gonna keep on breaking the rules until it really landed me in a jam. And I didn’t want to wake up one day having to do some actual jailtime just because I’d been too lazy to pull myself together.”

Apparently, that little speech did wonders on aspiring juveniles who found it much more glamorous to be on the other side of law and order.

Michael himself never tired of hearing it.

He had been a firsthand witness to Lincoln’s transformation, and though he’d been sorry to watch Lincoln leave the family home so he could ‘go spend some time with the military’ – this was how their parents had put it, though after Lincoln’s account of some of the hardships he’d gone through in there, it felt a lot like a euphemism – Michael had always admired his brother’s determination.

“At some point in life,” Lincoln said, “you have to grow up, Mike – _man_ up, you know what I’m saying?”

Of course, the way both brothers had gone about doing just that had been poles apart. The military had been the first step toward a career with the police, to Lincoln, while Michael had gone on to become an engineer – but not quite your average engineer.

In fact, as the brothers met up for drinks, and Lincoln was full of talk about his latest cases, Michael had started giving him some precious insight that had slowly made him a more or less official consultant with the police. Then, he could only guess as to how his reputation had gone all the way to Washington, until one day he was approached by a dark-clad, shadowy man, who had a lot of things to offer, and who asked only for Michael’s occasional participation in return.

It had been intimidating, sitting opposite that man – he had convinced Michael to have _a tête à tête_ in his car – and the idea of working for the CIA had made part of him cautious.

But in the end, he’d thought, _Why not?_

It might have been different if he’d had a family, not just a brother but a wife and child, whose welfare he needed to consider in every decision he made – probably, the thought alone of rubbing shoulders with such dangerous people would have set him against it. But at the time, he was a twenty-seven-year-old, brilliant young man, and the thought of cases more challenging even to his intellect than the ones on which the Chicago PD occasionally requested his help, was more than enough incentive to push Michael to take the risk.

On days like this one, he wasn’t sure to be glad or sorry that he had.

The face smiling at him from the photograph was making it hard to keep his emotions under check.

It was the first time he ever took on a case of kidnapping.

Lincoln took a step closer to his brother, and Michael thought again it was fortunate Frank Tancredi had agreed for his brother to assist him on this.

“Yep,” he said, with a casualness behind which only Michael could have discerned the latent graveness. “They are pros. And bastards.”

Without a word, Michael shot his way to the bedroom, his mind absolutely alert, ready to pick up on the mildest discrepancy.

Darts of discomfort sprang from his chest at the sight of the unmade bed, the ambient smell of coconut body lotion, the undeniable sense that he was violating a woman’s private life.

“You’ve rubbed everything for prints?”

“Yeah,” Lincoln said. “I’ll have some guy at the lab check them out privately. Owes me a favor of two.”

Michael sighed. “Good.”

Lincoln had no time to stop him or really register what his brother intended to do before he leapt on the bed, so suddenly the springs creaked beneath him.

“What on earth –”

“Shh.”

Michael closed his eyes, lying fully clothed in the middle of the sheets. Inside the bed, the pleasant smell of lotion was stronger, but he shut out the distraction, closed all the gates in his mind that didn’t open on his mental representation of what had happened last night.

“They got to her while she was sleeping,” he said.

“There might have been a struggle,” Lincoln sounded cautious. “They might have covered it up.”

“No need. Besides, they wouldn’t want to risk it. The walls are drywall. Thin. There’s a neighbor next door. She could have screamed.”

He shook his head.

“Safer to use drugs.”

“This is a fine building, as far as security goes,” Lincoln said. “Entry pass to get in. Without mentioning the door was locked when we found it – and intact.”

“And there are cameras in the entry hall. But they won’t show anything wrong.”

Lincoln let out a surprised _huh_ as his brother rolled over and dropped to the floor. The carpet was abrasive. Would they find tiny specks of her blood? Would she have moved like this, numbly, before the drugs fully swamped her system?

Michael opened his eyes. He was lying on his side, his left eye nearly level with the floor. Into the fabric, he could see small furrows like nails trailing along weakly before they had picked her up.

“The apartment won’t teach us anything, will it?”

“Maybe.” Michael sprang to his feet. “We should check out the security cameras at the front of neighboring shops. Possibly, they won’t have wiped those. They must have had a car waiting somewhere close.”

Lincoln sighed, a sigh Michael recognized as holding deeper meanings. “What?” He said.

Lincoln shook his head. “Just – this is just foolish, Michael. Of all the kidnapping cases I’ve heard of, all those that wound up all right were the ones where you give the abductors what they want. Does it suck? Sure. But it sucks less than losing a daughter. Tancredi should just swallow his massive ego and do the right thing. I don’t like this – risking the life of an innocent girl.”

“Woman. That graduation picture’s ten years old.”

“Makes no difference.”

Michael cocked his head to the side. “He’s trying to keep her safe. It’s what he hired me for.”

“Well, let me tell you, I have as much faith in you as anyone else does, Mike, but I don’t like the risk he’s taking, all the same. And I hope old Tancredi’s brain clears up, soon. Before he gets a finger or a tooth in the mail.”

2

The butter knife emerged blood-red from the slice of blueberry pie which the man – Lance – cut into neat pieces.

Sara sat silent, on the bed; there was nowhere else to sit. Her hands were twisted into her lap, fully visible. She could tell that Lance glanced at them every now and then as he cut the pie.

Although he hadn’t suggested tying her up again, although he was stretching the friendly act to its most obnoxious limits, it was clear that bringing a knife and fork into the picture was some kind of test.

And Sara would pass it.

Did he think she was an idiot?

That she would try to overpower him, at least two hundred and twenty pounds of flesh and muscle, with a butter knife? A _butter knife?_

“There you go. Go ahead. It’s good. As far as frozen pies go, it’s really good.”

Since outright rebelliousness wasn’t an option, Sara opted for ice-cold manners. It was the best she could do to counter his nauseating friendliness.

“Thank you. I’m not particularly hungry just now.”

He granted her answer more serious thought than she’d expected.

Fear bristled down her neck.

Yes, the cool act helped quiet it down, mostly, helped make her feel in control of the situation. So far, she thought she was coping with the whole thing rather admirably.

If this _had_ happened back in the days her father warned her constantly about it, while she was a little girl, then there might have been room for panic, tears, a tendency to turn the abductors into ten-feet-tall creatures that would haunt her nightmares.

Now, she could at least be pragmatic about it.

Most likely, things would go down as the man, Lance, had said. His father would do whatever it was they expected of him, and she would get out of this scratch-free.

Most likely.

“Well,” Lance said, then waited a while, filling the whole room with the expectation of his next words. “I can’t leave the cutlery with you. You’d have to eat this with your fingers,” he looked at the plate, feigned to find the idea ridiculous, and emerged with a wide grin as he looked back at her. “That’ll just be _messy_ , won’t it?”

Sara held eye-contact, without allowing herself to blink.

A sudden hate, like fire, burned inside her, and she almost told him to take back the food as well as the knife and fork, that she’d be on a hunger-strike as long as this little _exchange_ lasted. There would be dignity in that, at least; yes, and on the whole, it’d be easier to give up food for a few days than to bow her head in submission to the caressing hand of her kidnapper.

At least, it _felt_ easier, at the moment, when she still had last night’s meal to keep her going.

But of course, that piece of blueberry pie was a great deal more than it looked.

It wasn’t about _Lance_ wanting her to have a good breakfast. It was about power.

She sunk her nails into her palms, his eyes darted to them, and she knew he was watching her knuckles go white.

_This is the message he wants me to communicate. I won’t be trouble. You will have my cooperation._

_You have the power._

He pushed the plate in front of her; the fork speared into a piece of the pie. He kept the knife.

Oh, the temptation of defiance.

But what good would it do Sara to spit in his face right now?

All she wanted was for this to be over – to return to her life. In a couple of days, she’d be back at the hospital, doing more good than she ever could if she was lying buried in some unknown grave.

Yes.

This was not the time to make a stand. Just an unpleasant moment to be endured.

Sara grabbed the fork and shoved a piece of pie into her mouth before the urge to toss the plate away could get too strong.

She didn’t break eye-contact.

The sugary, crumbling pie tasted like slavery in her mouth.

Maybe there were no handcuffs, maybe there was no gun or weapon of threat.

But there were other ways to put chains on someone.

And something told her that Lance – whatever his name was – was an expert at finding them.

When she had finished, he got up to leave, but turned back before he had reached the door.

“Thank you for making this easy, Sara. I know it might feel like you have very few options right now – but I do value your cooperation. Very much. And if you choose the path of greater cooperation, whenever there is a choice for you to make,” he smiled, “you can trust I’ll make my own choices based on your best interests.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, Sara rushed to the bathroom and drank water straight from the sink, to wash away the sickly taste on her tongue.

“Bastard.” She whispered, low enough that she could barely hear herself over the sound of running water.

She splashed water over her face before she turned off the tap and stood quietly for a moment, facing the sink. There was something missing, her brain registered, though it was a while before she realized what it was – there was no mirror hanging from the wall. Probably fortunate.

Right now, Sara didn’t want to look at herself.

She would sooner wait until this was over, all behind her, before she could start thinking of herself as a person again.

Back in her room, Sara found nothing to do but open the Bible stored in the drawer of her bedside table, and open a page at random.

She sighed at the familiar passage – ‘ _Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves’_

“Right,” she said, “right.”

Really, she hadn’t read the Bible since she was a child, and thought ultimately that this was a bad idea. Without a mirror around, sitting alone in a room, like a prisoner, she might forget she was actually a grown woman, instead of a little girl, trapped inside a childhood nightmare.

She browsed the pages at random and closed the book.

But not before a certain verse caught her eye, and made her shiver, as if she had glimpsed some magical omen.

‘And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined in the prison: and he smote Peter on the side, and raised him up, saying, Arise up quickly. And his chains fell off from his hands.’


	3. Chapter 3

Sara rubbed the skin of her wrist with her thumb, absentmindedly, an irritated shade of red from the few hours she had spent in cuffs.

Not so much because the sore skin hurt, but because the gesture soothed.

Maybe there was a word for the awfulness of having nothing to do but wait, of having to guess how many minutes had gone by since she had last gotten up from the bed and walked around the room to stretch her legs, a word that wasn’t ‘boredom’. Gosh, how she wished she _could_ be bored, without that iron anxiety gnawing at every nerve in her body, without freezing on the spot every time she thought she picked up the slightest sound on the other side of that door.

Was Lance back?

Had he gone at all? She thought she had heard keys in a lock and a door clicking shut, but maybe it hadn’t been the exit door. For all she knew, there was a handful of other prisoners just like her elsewhere in that apartment.

“Ridiculous,” she whispered to herself.

She forced her fingers to stop rubbing her wrist.

Now, she was pretty sure she was making it sorer.

A mild gasp broke free from her lips as keys entered a lock again. It was at some distance from her – must be a rather big apartment – but Sara had grown used enough to the silence now that she was sure she’d be able to hear it if a soap bubble burst on the other side of that door.

Shortly, footsteps sounded closer to the room she was kept in and, sure enough, after more sounds of keys rattling and a bolt being pulled, the door opened, and behind it was the man who called himself Lance.

He smiled when he saw her, a smile of greeting, but that couldn’t help itself from looking slightly like a smirk.

He looked taller than usual, and Sara realized she hadn’t thought of standing up.

“No, don’t move,” he said when she motioned to get up from the bed, and a flush of heat flew into her cheeks despite herself.

It was pointless to hide traces of her vulnerability from him, anyhow. He must be used to detecting them, and there was only so much she could keep under the surface.

But she could hold on to her dignity, up to a point. And she intended to do exactly that.

“It’ll be easier like this.”

“What?”

He moved closer to the bed.

It took every bit of self-control Sara had not to scramble backward and let her back hit the wall. Where would that get her?

She would not crawl away from him like an animal.

He stopped at the edge of the mattress and pulled a phone out of his pocket. “Ready to talk to your dad?”

A sigh of relief struggled to get out, and Sara bit her tongue to hold it in. She was sure to hold eye-contact, all the while, as if the man standing before her right now was really a puma whose lair she had entered right around dinner time.

Without blinking, she gave a curt nod.

He laughed, like she was being a good sport.

His fingers moved across the keyboard and a great wave of numbness washed over her.

Last time she had seen her father, he was signing her into that rehab facility where she’d spent a total of three months. He had sent in one of his men to check her out because he couldn’t be bothered to come, but he _had_ paid every dime of the exorbitant fee demanded by the rehab center until Sara was clean and fit to reenter society.

It was true that he had never been one to get personal, and even as a child, she’d arguably received more love from Francis, the redfish that circled around all day in its bowl, than from her overwhelmingly absent father, of whom she saw a maximum of forty five minutes each day at dinner.

But he had always done what he considered his duty toward her, no matter his awkwardness or reluctance.

Really, there was no doubt into Sara’s mind that her father _would_ do whatever necessary to get her out of here, unharmed.

She motioned to take the phone when Lance finished dialing and he moved it out of reach swiftly.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, and held the phone close to her face instead.

Sara clenched her teeth, but could not help herself from swallowing in discomfort. “Is that necessary?”

“Probably not,” he admitted. “But I don’t like to take chances.”

An image flashed through her brain, of herself grabbing the cell phone and hurling it into the wall so it’d smash satisfyingly.

Did he think she was that dumb?

Even if she had been that little girl whom everyone warned against such situations, Sara would have probably been capable of more self-restraint than that.

“I know, I know,” he sighed exasperatingly, as if reading her mind. “This is all very – infantilizing. I don’t mean to insult your intelligence.”

She could hear the phone starting to ring.

The man was close enough that she could smell his aftershave.

“But if anything goes wrong, it’s my head on the line as well as yours.”

Sara almost asked, ‘You expect me to believe that?’ But stopped herself just after releasing the initial breath wanted for the words. He didn’t care what she believed, and she didn’t want to keep adding polish to that surface of politeness between them.

“Hello?”

It was her father’s voice.

For a moment, Sara was only startled to hear him, immediately, and not have to go through the impossible networks of staff and secretaries who’d tell her he was busy, but they could make sure he got her message.

And he was worried, too.

There was no mistaking that.

Frank Tancredi had not sounded so worried since her mother had been dying, and they had both sat in the waiting room of the hospital, a strained silence between them, as they came to the mutual realization that though she was his twelve-year-old daughter, she and he were in fact strangers, whatever blood might be running through their veins. 

The deep, raw emotion in her father’s voice caused Sara to freeze for a moment.

She did not _want_ to sit there and say nothing, when he desperately needed confirmation that she was alive. But she hadn’t prepared for this.

It was Lance’s amused smile that shook her out of her stupor.

“Getting emotional?” He asked.

Now, her teeth clenched so hard she had trouble getting the words out. “Hi dad.”

It was as if a bucket of hot water spilled over her head.

To have to do this alone would be bad enough, but in front of the man who had taken her –

Worse. Much worse.

“Oh, Sara.”

There was that plaintive exhale she hadn’t heard in a while. Maybe the last time had been during her first overdose.

Over time, her father had grown steelier at the idea of her daughter getting herself in trouble.

Well, that was hardly fair, Sara thought. Had _she_ gotten herself kidnapped?

And yet, blended with concern, her father’s voice was tinged with reproach – probably unintentional. As if he genuinely couldn’t believe in his daughter’s innocence anymore, whatever trouble he found her in.

“Are you –”

“I’m all right.”

“Of course, she’s all right.”

Lance straightened up, taking the phone with him. It was on speaker mode, so Sara could still hear her father’s strained breathing on the other end of the line.

“Nothing remotely unpleasant has been done to her, sir, and so long as you meet my employer’s demands, nothing will be.”

Silence dropped over the room.

Sara understood her father’s embarrassment. This was his cue to be angry, outraged at the possibility of any harm coming to his only child, but he was so clumsy whenever an occasion for genuine and strong feeling fell into his lap.

It wasn’t as if he could adopt a protective, threatening tone and thunder, ‘If you harm her, I’ll –’

No.

Frank Tancredi was a business man.

In all likelihood, so was Lance.

There was no cause for any emotional outburst on either side.

“So,” Lance resumed, in his insufferable pleasant voice. “You don’t need to worry about anything, governor. I’m going to make things extremely clear. It’s my understanding you have a speech scheduled two days from now. For the inauguration of a new school opening, yes? Well. You’re going to have your speech writer rewrite whatever he had planned for you. You’re going to announce your intention to veto the legislation on gun reform.”

Sara gasped.

Lance shot her an amused glance which fueled her hate for him like poison.

She had heard about that reform, and for once, had thought she saw something like hope gleaming inside the usual tedium of politics. And her father’s public decision not to oppose the vote of the majority had been one of the rare times when she had actually agreed with him.

“Wait,” she said, “but you can’t –”

“Sara, I don’t mean to be rude,” Lance said, “but it really would be better for us all if you kept quiet. As I was saying,” he resumed, to her father’s attention, “you will publicly make it known that you will veto the reform. From that stage on, our holding your daughter here will be a mere matter of formalities. Naturally, we could trust you to keep your word – but I’m afraid trust is a word my employer is rather shy of. So, after that announcement, when the bill comes into your office, which shouldn’t be longer than a week, you’ll do as you said and veto it. That’s all. Easy as hello, isn’t it?”

Sara said nothing. She could hear the desperation into her father’s breathing, and it made her deeply uncomfortable, as it had to see him collapse at the death of her mother.

All her life, Sara’s father had been more like a fortress than a man, always safe, always private behind that fortified wall. And there was nothing more traumatizing to them both than the rare moments when the fortress showed cracks.

“You don’t understand,” he said after a moment. “I’ve done nothing but repeat I wouldn’t go against the voice of the people. No one would believe –”

“Politicians contradict themselves all the time, governor,” Lance cut in. “I’m sure you’ll see people won’t be surprised that you’re no exception. Now, have you understood what my employer wants from you?”

Another strained silence.

“It’s important I hear it,” Lance said, “so we’re all clear and my employer doesn’t think you need more – motivation.”

“Yes.”

“Good. And I’m sure you don’t need me to be any clearer as to what’s at stake. I would love it if you could rely on your imagination instead of my having to tell you exactly which piece of your daughter you’ll receive in the mail if we find you’ve tried to cross us in any way. I do hate to play the sadist, governor. But I’ll do it. All clear on that?”

“Yes, yes.”

Again, Sara heard the tiredness in her father’s tone. This must be hard for him, facing the role of the outraged father, the shoes he couldn’t fill.

“Good,” Lance said again. “Then we have nothing more to say to each other. Goodbye, governor.”

He hung up the phone.

Sara found she was staring at him, but couldn’t stop herself for the life of her. “I thought you said I wouldn’t be here longer than a few days.”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s a rather harsh truth you woke up to, isn’t it, Sara? I wanted to ease you in. You might not believe it, but I assure you – I can be rather soft.”

Sara appraised him.

She didn’t know whether or not she believed him, but she knew it didn’t matter, either way.

Maybe executioners had their weaknesses, like everybody else.

Maybe he wouldn’t like to have to kill her, maybe he’d even get a couple of rough nights over it.

But he’d do it, and his bruised conscience wouldn’t do her one bit of good in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please share your thoughts in the comment section as always!


	4. Chapter 4

1

That phone conversation with her father had been awkward enough that Sara wouldn’t have liked to think it would be listened to, over and over, and shredded for potential clues by a CIA consultant and his brother.

“What do you make of it?” Michael asked.

They were currently in his penthouse in Uptown Chicago. After the phone call, Frank Tancredi had wanted to meet in person, but Michael found it safer for their exchanges to be through untraceable phones whenever was possible.

Whoever had taken the governor’s daughter, they were probably keeping a close watch on Frank, precisely in case he decided to hire outside help.

And Michael wouldn’t want to be the reason why Frank Tancredi might receive a piece of his daughter in the mail.

“What _is_ there to make of it,” Lincoln muttered.

Michael could hear that he was angry. For starters, he wasn’t sitting down but pacing the living room, quick, driven footsteps, and a veil of ice had fallen over his green eyes.

“It’s a classic case of kidnapping, Mike. And I don’t think this guy is kidding _at all_ when he talks about cutting up that woman –”

“I didn’t mean the conversation itself.”

Lincoln’s eyes shot towards Michael, and the anger in them was so raw, anyone other than Michael would have had the reflex to back away.

But Michael knew Lincoln too much; knew he was never good at bottling up his emotions. But that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t cut off his own arm before he raised his hand on someone he loved.

“How can you be so damn quiet?”

Michael shrugged. “It’s the job. It’s _your_ job, more than mine.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. When I get home from work, sometimes, after dealing with some especially messed up bastards, I have to go through two hours at the gym before I can get it out of my system. You,” he said, “you design buildings for a living. And to be in such a situation where you hear about an innocent girl getting tortured and killed, that doesn’t make you blink?”

“Getting our heads in a whirl isn’t going to help Sara Tancredi,” Michael answered simply.

His brother looked at his feet, and Michael waited in silence, until he was ready to get his mind back on business.

In truth, it wasn’t fair of Lincoln to accuse Michael of being cold.

The degree of ruthlessness vibrant in the man’s voice _was_ disturbing, only Michael didn’t handle being disturbed in the same way most people did.

There were no cathartic trips to the gym for Michael, no way to ‘get out of his system’ all the horror and injustice that ran rampant in this world.

All he knew how to do was drink it in.

Lincoln couldn’t be more wrong if he thought that hearing some man talk about dismembering a girl, in the same business-minded tone as he might talk about having to write an unpleasant email, didn’t affect Michael at all.

It was never his emotions he managed to keep under control. Only his actions.

“All right,” Lincoln said. He was still standing but had given up walking around the room. “What do _you_ make of it?”

“There aren’t a lot of noises, aside from their talking. Nothing you’d get in a regular apartment in the city.”

“It’s not a warehouse, though.” Lincoln said. “The sound’s not right. No echoes.”

“No. There’s a clock ticking faintly in the background. An old-fashioned one. Probably, he’s keeping her at his own apartment.”

“Outside Chicago?”

Michael shrugged again. “We’ve established that she was taken during the night. The first call Tancredi got was the next morning. They acted fast.”

“They might have still been on the move when they called him. Remember, there’s a whole company behind it.”

“If I’d just kidnapped a woman,” Michael said, “I wouldn’t draw attention to it until after I had her safely locked up where I wanted her.”

Lincoln shivered slightly at the mention, and for a moment, he looked angry again. His fists were huge, resting against his thighs.

“You’re right,” he said in the end. “If it’s the guy’s apartment though, it’s soundproof.”

“At least the room where he’s keeping her is. It could be there’s no neighbors. Some remote house, maybe a second residency, not too far from here.”

“Would they have needed to call an agency to soundproof the place?”

“Not necessarily. There’s homemade ways of doing it.”

Michael got to his feet.

Lincoln followed him with his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to call Tancredi, tell him that next time, he should ask for a video call. He can say it’s because he wants to make sure she hasn’t been hurt. We’ll have a lot more to work on then.”

Lincoln let out a sigh Michael pretended not to hear. “Don’t you think we should just tell the guy to give the kidnappers what they want?”

“That’s not what he hired us for.”

“Screw the reason why he hired us.” Lincoln looked angry again, though he didn’t raise his voice. “It’s just his reputation on the line. Maybe his career. But his daughter could die. And the more we dig, the more we try to find them, the likelier it gets that they realize they’re being tailed, and they decide to retaliate.”

Michael nodded. “I know. I don’t like this, either.”

“Then why don’t you tell Tancredi it can’t be done?”

“I will,” he said. “When I know for certain that it can’t be.”

2

Though she didn’t have an actual recording of the conversation, Sara herself spent a long while replaying it in her mind, weighing every silence, every unusual tremor in her father’s voice.

She was smart about it, though.

After the phone call, after Lance left the room, she turned on the television and pretended to watch the news, because if this room happened to be equipped with hidden cameras, she didn’t want to take any chances. Maybe she was just being paranoid, but didn’t a kidnapping victim get a pass on a little paranoia?

If Lance was actually watching her every move, then she didn’t want him to dissect the look on her face, and somehow get access to the private thoughts that were raging in her brain.

For the first time since she had woken up with her hands tied in this strange apartment, it actually occurred to Sara that her father was _not_ going to go along with her kidnappers’ demands.

It seemed clearer and clearer, as she revisited their phone conversation and deconstructed it until all the parts lay open-hearted before her, so plain, it seemed a miracle that Lance hadn’t picked up on it.

For starters, unlike what she had thought at the beginning, they weren’t asking her father for money. Not that Frank Tancredi liked to _give_ money away, even small amounts. He’d always been the kind of guy to leave five dollars along with the check, after paying for a several-hundred-dollar meal. Along the years, the money he had spent on Sara, he had paid reluctantly, but he had paid it, always, when it was in her better interest.

Surely, if he could bail her out of jail and send her to rehab, she had thought, he could pay a ransom to her kidnappers.

But money wasn’t what was at stake here.

If Frank Tancredi vetoed the bill on gun control, now, if he explicitly did what he had repeatedly sworn not to do, his career would be over, his reputation soiled irreparably.

And, as afraid as Sara felt right at this second, as much as she wanted to think that her father would give _anything_ for her to get back home alive, she knew him too well for that.

And the truth was that Frank Tancredi was too proud to simply comply with the demands of such people without even trying to outsmart them.

That tremor in his voice, all the while that he was speaking – he had been afraid. Too afraid. Not like a man who’s willing to play docilely into a dangerous game, but like one who’s gambled everything he had, and who’s praying to heaven the odds will be with him when the die start rolling.

Fear was turning her heartbeat into a quick flutter, but for some miraculous reason, Sara didn’t give way to panic.

What good would panic do her now, except from alerting Lance that she was more worried for her life than she should be?

What good would it do for her to imagine just what he might do to her, if her father’s plan backfired?

No.

All she could do, she thought, now that the die were cast, was to play along. She had to help her father locate her, somehow, communicate all the information she could about who had taken her.

Never mind that she didn’t even know _where_ she was.

_Dad, why did you have to be so stubborn?_

She might not get out of here alive. But at least, she’d try.

3

From his living room, just one wall away from where Sara was, Paul Kellerman watched at the monitor he’d installed a few weeks ago, when the company had come to him about their plan. There were actually two cameras, top-notch quality, one disguised into the ceiling light, another opposite the bed, planted into the frame of the television.

No surveillance in the bathroom, though.

He liked to think that he had standards.

And, all in all, these sessions of secretly watching his prisoner’s private life were not so unpleasant, past the initial cringe at the thought of his voyeuristic position.

It could have been a lot worse, say, if she had spent her days buried in her pillow, crying. Really, he couldn’t help but admire her composure, not just when they were face to face, but when she was alone; she didn’t break down. That was something.

In truth, he was becoming a little fond of his Bible-reading prisoner, who spoke to him the way an innocent who has been sentenced to die speaks to their executioner: with the full weight of morality on their side.

Kellerman had always appreciated courage.

Probably, everything would go smoothly down the rails the company had laid out before them. Frank Tancredi would yield, as any father would, and Kellerman would release the girl unharmed, with his own conscience unbruised.

So far, kidnapping or not, the girl was getting a fair deal. Heck, he’d even given her the bedroom. Soon, this little babysitting job would be over, and he could get back to _feeling_ like Special Agent Kellerman, instead of Lance-the-creepy-kidnapper.

“For you and I both, Sara,” he said to himself, eyes fixed on the screen, looking at the young woman. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, her eyes lost into deep reflections, although the television was switched on. “This whole thing can’t be over soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d love to know what you thought of this chapter. Please share your reactions in the comment section. Take care!


	5. Chapter 5

1

The only footage Michael managed to find on the night of Sara’s kidnapping was from a small women’s wear shop, in the street opposite Sara’s home.

Lincoln had told Michael to go into the whole thing without too much hope.

“Almost eighty percent of security cameras are fakes, you know,” he’d said. “Just meant to discourage thieves from taking their chances.”

But as it turned out, as the brothers asked around about potential footage that might be of help to the police, one of the shops did have a real camera. It wasn’t quite facing Sara’s building, but you had to play the hand fate dealt you, and the brothers considered it enough of a win that they should get any footage at all.

The shop owner, a small shrunken woman with pearly eyes and a smile that still had all its teeth, agreed to let them watch the footage in the back of her shop. And so the brothers sat for hours, lunched on ridiculously small stools, which was the best the owner could offer them for seats.

At some point, tired of shifting constantly, Lincoln let out a grunt, sprang off the stool and sat on the ground. Not long after that, he dug a pack of salty peanuts out of his jean pocket and started munching them by the handful.

But Michael didn’t flinch.

He watched the screen, careful not to miss anything.

“You know, I’ll never understand how you do that,” Lincoln said.

“How I do what?”

“How you just –” Lincoln pointed at him vaguely with his finger, like he was trying to draw the contour of something shapeless. “Wait. Like, forever. How you’re able to do _nothing_ but wait.”

“I’m not waiting. I’m watching.”

“Watching the footage of a street with nothing happening.”

“Plenty’s happening. Every car rolling by could be our kidnapper’s.”

So far though, they hadn’t been.

Of the few cars that had appeared the screen, Michael had been able to dismiss all beyond doubt. There had been one flashy red car, a green Jeep with the windows rolled down, so you could make out the driver’s face clearly, and a beige Alpha Romeo where a whole family was cramped and eating hamburgers.

“What time now?”

“Three a.m.”

Lincoln sighed and offered Michael some peanuts. Michael couldn’t keep judgment completely out of his voice when he said, “You know, you could try to act like we aren’t sitting at the movies.”

“What?” Lincoln defended. “Work makes me hungry.”

“We are investigating a kidnapping.”

“Well, I’m a policeman. My job gets gruesome. And yeah, I’m a functioning human being, so I still get hungry. Don’t think it makes me an asshole.”

“Could you not –”

But Lincoln raised his hand, motioning Michael to be silent.

Michael’s eyes shot immediately back toward the screen, where a black Sedan was rolling past. It was gone in five seconds.

“Play it again.”

Michael grabbed the remote and pushed the rewind button.

The car was perfect. Black, almost invisible in the night. Tinted windows, so they could not even glimpse what was inside. Michael pressed pause when the license plate came into view.

“You’re sure that’s the one?” Lincoln asked.

“It’s got to be.”

Lincoln’s mouth broke into a wide grin. “If we can track the vehicle, we can track the kidnapper.”

“We can narrow down the perimeter,” Michael said. “But if the guy’s a pro, he might have changed his license plate sometime during the ride.”

“C’mon. Can’t you ever be optimistic?”

“Not when the stakes are this high. We’ve got to consider every possibility.”

“Then what’s the next step?”

“Follow that car, obviously. And call Frank Tancredi. He needs to schedule another talk with his daughter – and we’ve got to hope this one will be more informative.”

“You’re hoping she’s going to give us clues? Deliberately? She probably thinks dear old dad’s going to do as her kidnappers ask. Heck, wouldn’t you?”

Michael pressed his lips together. “I don’t know. There was something about her voice the other day. And she knows her father.”

“Well,” Lincoln said, “let’s hope she knows him better than _they_ do. Because if they think Tancredi hired us to work behind their backs –”

“I know,” Michael said. “I know.”

He looked back at the screen and stared at the car, where he knew Sara Tancredi had been lying, restrained, unconscious, invisible to anyone watching.

2

They tracked the car all the way to Palmer, where it faded from the radars.

“Either he changed the plate,” Lincoln said, “or he disappeared somewhere nearby without getting caught on cameras. Palmer’s a tiny city, far from the madding crowd as they say. Maybe he’s got a warehouse or an apartment nearby.”

That was just the sort of thing Michael hoped to find out from Sara during their next call.

They met Frank Tancredi later that day. Under other circumstances, they probably would have met in his office, but again, he favored a car. Less conspicuous. It’d be foolish for Michael and his brother to be seen at Frank’s workplace. Not just foolish, but dangerous. Michael was extremely aware of that. Though it wasn’t his first time working as a consultant, it was a first to have the life of an innocent woman depend on whether he screwed up.

_Don’t screw up then. Don’t screw up._

“Mr. Tancredi.” Michael greeted Frank with a handshake.

Lincoln made do with a serious nod; maybe he hated the guy a little for refusing to take the easiest, least risky path to save his daughter.

That was a fair point, but looking at Frank’s face, Michael couldn’t help but feel for him. On their first meeting in that same car, Frank had looked scared; today, he looked haggard. Like a lemon that’s been left to dry in the sun for weeks. Surely, if a reporter managed to get a picture of his face, theories would fuse about what deadly disease he was hiding.

“Mr. Scofield,” he said, a show of strength. “Mr. Burrows.”

Lincoln spoke before Michael could open his mouth. “We got a lead.” Frank Tancredi’s eyes sparkled to life. “Thanks to a security footage in one of the shops near your daughter’s building, we were able to identify the vehicle her kidnapper might have used to transport her.”

“Might?”

“Of course, we’re dealing with mights.” Lincoln said, matter-of-factly, not audibly annoyed; but Michael knew his brother enough to tell he was.

“What he means to say is it’s standard,” Michael offered.

Lincoln shot him a look. _Let me say what I mean_.

“My team tracked down the car to Palmer. Ever been?”

“Yes,” Frank said. “A couple of times, during campaigns. A small town with little of interest.”

“That’s where the traces go blank.”

The battle against hope was blatant on Frank’s face. “So you think –”

“It might be where he’s keeping her,” Michael said. “But it’s possible they just changed the license plate mid-course. We’re going to canvas the area. We should be back in Chicago soon enough –”

“How soon?” Frank shook his head. “I’m sorry. But the man I spoke with on the phone – you heard what he said. I have two days. The speech at the inauguration of Franklin’s College is next Thursday, at two. That’s when they’re expecting me to announce my veto against the reform bill. If you haven’t found Sara by then –”

“Look, Governor,” Lincoln cut in. “I think if I was in your shoes, I’d want a straight answer, so I’m gonna be straight. My brother and I are doing everything we can to locate your daughter. But you have to realize there is no way out of this that’s absolutely safe. Even if we find out where she is, extracting her is not gonna be easy. They’re not gonna _make it_ easy. And it’s likely the first thing they’ll do once they realize you’ve double-crossed them is kill your daughter.”

Michael sighed.

As usual, his brother scored no points for tact.

Frank’s response, predictably, was anger. “I hired you so you would bring Sara back to me –”

“Yes,” Lincoln said. “And I’m telling you that by asking us not to comply with her kidnappers’ demands, you’re doubling the chances that she might not get out of this alive. Maybe tripling them. _I_ ’d want to know, if it was my daughter, so I’m telling you. I get your career is important to you. But if you’re hoping to run for president, someday, you might want to rethink your strategy. Some voters will praise you for your iron hand, but others will think you were ruthless.”

It looked like Frank was two seconds away from telling them both to get out. But he calmed down. What choice did he have? He couldn’t fire them. He didn’t have time.

He looked at Michael, “You agree with your brother?”

“Yes,” Michael said. “I would have put it differently, but I agree with him. You need to be aware of the risks you’re taking.”

Frank shook his head. “You can’t imagine what it is. To be forced into backing down from your beliefs. To be manhandled like this. The humiliation of it. It would be the end of me. I’d never be able to have faith in my office, let alone look at myself in the mirror. I’m the governor. I can’t let some terrorists shape the lives of the people who’ve elected me.”

“I agree with that in theory,” Lincoln said. “But it’s not your voters’ lives on the line, or yours.”

Silence filled all the space in the car. Michael was the one to break it, “If you want to stick with your plan, then you need to buy your daughter more time. Tell them to change the deadline. Ask them for a picture of your daughter, or a video. We need more material to work on.”

Frank nodded, but his eyes were absent. Michael could tell in his head, he’d already dismissed them. He needed to be alone with his thoughts.

“He’s an old fool,” Lincoln said, when he and Michael were out of the car. “He wants to have his cake and eat it too. Must have watched too many action movies where the good guys always win, whatever the odds.”

Michael said nothing. He was sitting shotgun next to Linc, as they rolled steadily toward Palmer.

“Come on, don’t make me think you like the guy?”

“It’s not about liking him.”

“Or that you think he’s making the right decision. This isn’t about staying true to his voters, Mike, we both know this.”

“Of course not. It’s about pride. Almost everything is.”

“And you don’t find it disgusting?”

Michael sighed. “That’s just like you, Linc. When you’re outraged, you have to say it. When you’re pissed off, you have to punch something. There was just no use in it, telling those things to Frank Tancredi. The more you accuse him, the more stubbornly he’ll hold on to his righteousness. Right now, it’s all he has left.”

“So, you only do things because they’re useful?”

“Why else would I do them?”

“Because they feel good.”

“Ah. Spoken like a proper primate.”

Lincoln elbowed him in the shoulder. Minutes later, they rode past a sign that read, _Palmer, ME: Where the best begins._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and New Year’s Eve! Please let me know your thoughts on the chapter and theories in the comment section. Take care!


	6. Chapter 6

1

David Apolskis didn’t like going to the building on Kings Street in Palmer, Illinois. Not that he’d ever admit as much to his colleagues or his boss; he didn’t even allow himself to complain when the call came, though sometimes he managed to trade with one of the guys at work. David was willing to do more work and spend an extra half hour on the road, if it meant someone else got to do the Kings Street delivery for him.

What was worst about it was, there was no _rational_ reason for it.

The building was in a nice neighborhood. It was fancier than most places David ever visited. You could tell before you even got to the door, which was tall and majestic, opening on a pristine hall with carpeted stairs and a spacious elevator that took David to the penthouse, where Owen Kravecki lived. There was just no way to deny it to himself, though; the man gave him the creeps.

Maybe it was because he was dressed in one of those expensive suits that reminded David of the people whose faces formed the concept of authority in his mind, lawyers, politicians. Who the fuck wears a suit in their own home?

Owen Kravecki. That was who.

He was never mean to David; on the contrary, he went to great lengths to be pleasant, took the food with a smile and always tipped David decently.

But beneath the sleeves of his jacket, David’s arms were all gooseflesh when the man took the food and his hands brushed against his.

Sometimes, in the few minutes that the transaction lasted, Owen Kravecki made small talk. “You go to school, David?”

He’d asked for David’s name the second or third time he’d seen him.

“Yeah.”

Though he skipped more classes than he attended.

“College?”

“High school.”

The man took the food. Slipped David an extra five-dollar bill on top of the twenty for his meal.

“Thanks, man.”

“Have a nice evening.”

David rushed down the stairs as soon as the man had shut himself in. The elevator was too slow going down, and he was always desperate to get out, like the very air inside the building was crushing him.

The fear David felt – and it _was_ fear, no other name for it – was never something he thought much about once the moment had passed, nor did he try to explain it to himself.

The human desire for rationality often takes over more primal instincts, and because there was no rational reason for David to be afraid of that man, of that building, he would have denied it to anyone who confronted him about it, as he denied it to himself most of the time.

He didn’t wonder why the man was always careful to reveal as little as possible of his apartment, meeting David in the hall and closing the door behind him shut. He didn’t wonder that, lately, the man had started ordering food for two, although David never heard or saw a glimpse of whoever was keeping Owen Kravecki company.

There was only one thing David knew about the man or woman who’d been sharing Owen’s meals. He wouldn’t like to be in their shoes. Not for all the money in the world. Not for anything.

2

You would think that being afraid for your life would take away the possibility of being bored, but as Sara soon realized, it didn’t.

The only thing she had to pass the time with was the Bible and television, but there was little comfort in the former and she couldn’t bring herself to focus on the images on the screen, talk shows, TV series, the news program. The people on the other side of the screen might as well have been aliens reporting the weather from Mars. Their words had no impact on Sara’s reality. Besides, to land on familiar programs was uncanny, like Stephen Colbert or John Oliver’s Last Week Tonight. Sara usually watched their shows on replay while she ate, one of the pleasures of living alone. While she was in this room, seeing reminders of her life outside was like touching the sore ends of bruised nerves. Sara was sure if she really started to think about home – her apartment in Uptown Chicago – she would cry.

And crying was out of the question.

She still hadn’t determined whether the sensation that she was being watched was well founded or sheer paranoia.

Soft knocks rapped on the door.

Sara’s heart rocketed as it always did, when her illusory bubble of solitude burst at Lance’s approach. Nothing to worry about. It was half past seven. One good thing about TV was it helped her keep track of time. The routine of meals with Lance was a special sort of hell, but it _was_ routine.

And in this place, what Sara feared most was the unknown.

A pause followed the knocks.

Lance was being _polite_.

Sara was sure he was the kind of man who waited before you were decently dressed before he started to torture you.

He entered the room, and as always, filled every inch with his presence. Sara sat frozen on the bed, staring at him like she was waiting for the hate in her eyes to turn solid and pierce him full of holes. It was abominable, to be sitting on a bed while he was standing; she always had to resist getting up before he entered, because it would be like showing him her fear on a silver platter.

There was a bag in his hand. Takeaway food. The name of the company on the plastic bag and the carton boxes: _Freshly_. It was a sad piece of irony that, before she was kidnapped, Sara ate _Freshly_ meals whenever she was back from the hospital in time to eat at home. Busy people who don’t like fast food have options now, when they can’t find the time or the inclination to cook.

Lance was a busy man. Hopefully, she’d go back to being a busy woman someday.

But if she had a choice in the matter, she’d never eat one _Freshly_ dinner ever again.

“How are you today?” He asked.

“Please, let’s not.”

He played innocent. “Let’s not what?”

Sara contemplated pushing her courage with an honest answer. _Let’s not pretend like it makes a difference how I am, seeing as you’d shoot me dead if you thought my father wasn’t going to do as you asked._

But the quick throb of her heartbeat reminded her things could get a lot worse, if Lance decided she was being defiant.

“Let’s just – not.”

After a quick appraisal, he accepted her answer with a nod. The discomfort of eating under his watch hadn’t toned down, but Sara had learned to go past it; she went through each forkful without giving her body a choice. If she had to throw up in the toilet later tonight that was too bad, but just part of the game. Now especially – if dear old dad was thinking of screwing Lance over – it was better her docile-kidnapped-girl act was topnotch.

“I spoke to your father again today.”

The food felt like a lump of cement in Sara’s throat. She tried to swallow, eyes fixed on her plate. _Don’t look at him don’t look at him_.

Lance’s silence pushed around Sara like a physical force. He wanted her to respond. Like it or not, she was the second player in their current game of kidnapper-to-kidnapped, and it didn’t seem to make the least difference to Lance that she was an unwilling player. Maybe he was one, too. You don’t choose that kind of job when you can help it. Not when you wear thousand-dollar suits and you look like you belong in a prime-time white-collar drama. So, maybe Lance felt stuck with her in a way, with a babysitting job he considered far below him, and he thought if he was being a good sport, then she should be, too.

Lance was probably the type of guy who made you say you loved him when he raped you.

Not that he looked the raping type, to Sara’s good fortune. You had to acknowledge the small mercies.

“And?” Sara finally said.

It was good enough for Lance. Minimal participation. “He was a little – disappointing.”

Sara still struggled with her cement-like mouthful. Her throat must have narrowed to the size of a marble.

“No offense,” he said. “All politicians are the same. You give them a deal all clear-cut and neat, and they always,” he sighed, “always try to negotiate. They go for the third way. I’m not surprised as such, still, I thought the message had come across when we spoke on the phone this morning. Didn’t you?”

Somehow, survival instinct kicked in and Sara managed to swallow her food. “Yes.”

He made eye-contact with her. Sure as anything, he was trying to tell if she was lying. And she was. All she could do was pray she’d gotten better since she was a school girl swearing to God the hickey in her neck was a bee sting.

“Hum,” Lance pondered. “Well, you know your father best.”

The thumping of her heart was deafening to her ears.

He could hear it.

He must know a liar when he saw one. Even a good one.

_Distract him._

“What did he want?” She asked.

Maybe he wouldn’t humor her with an answer, but she thought he would. It was too boring to play this game alone, to toss the ball against the wall for the main part. He was always pleased when his second player showed interest in the game.

“To stall,” he said.

Sara’s teeth gritted. That wasn’t good.

“Well… you did give him a very short deadline.”

“ _I_ didn’t give it. I’m only the messenger, Sara. Besides, I didn’t think you’d want to drag this out any further. Don’t you want to go home?”

“Painfully.”

The sudden honesty from her made him laugh. It sounded so casual, Sara could imagine they were colleagues, making pleasant chat while queueing for coffee in the morning.

“There you go,” he said, “and the governor has no reason to be enjoying this any more than you do.”

Quick thinking was all Sara had time for. The best liars blended some truth in, right? “His career is important to him.”

“Ah.”

Lance sounded like he’d put his finger on something really good. The silent question rose from him, so loud, Sara could almost truly hear it.

_More than you?_

“I mean, he’ll want to do this right. A complete U-Turn in two days would be political suicide. Like you said, my father thinks in black and white. He must think if you give him more time, he can think of a way to fit this into his image.”

“Oh, Sara,” Lance sighed. Every time he said her name, she felt like there was a hornet’s nest hiding under her skin, ready to come to life. “Let me make this very clear. I don’t care about your dad’s career. If he gets reelected, if he retires – that matters to me like yesterday’s trash. And to the people I work for, it matters even less.”

Sara didn’t manage to nod, but it must be plain from the look on her face that he’d made his point.

“I just don’t really like that your father feels in a position to negotiate,” he said. “I didn’t bring it up to my employers. Do you think I should?”

Sara’s mouth opened on solid air. Thankfully, he went on before giving her a real chance to answer.

“Usually, when you take people’s children, they’re careful to butter up to you. It’s almost embarrassing. Now, your dad asking for a delay – you don’t think that means he’s getting overconfident. You don’t think he somehow got the wrong message from our talk this morning?”

This time, the answer he expected was obvious and it was easy, “No.”

“I hope not.”

_Thump_.

He took a single step closer. Sara felt ready to throw her food at him although it wouldn’t help, to stab him with her fork although it was plastic. He’d given up on feeding her himself, thank heaven, and maybe she could dig the fork into his eye. Plastic or not, that would hurt. But then, he could hurt her a lot more, using real knives. Even just using his hands.

Sara remained sitting, straight like all the bones in her body had turned to steel.

“Maybe,” he said, “just to be sure, we can push the message a little deeper when we talk to him tomorrow.”

Sara didn’t dare agree. Push the message deeper might mean her losing a finger or a toe.

“What I mean,” he said, “is you can try to make it _absolutely_ _clear_ to him how important it is that he does everything we ask him to.”

Another easy answer. “Yes.”

“Good. You can finish eating.”

And much to her surprise, Sara found she could.

3

In all but an hour, the brothers had seen everything there was to see about Palmer, the town “Where the best begins”, six thousand inhabitants, one movie theater, two supermarkets, some three or four diners.

“That can’t be it,” Lincoln said.

They had left the car at a parking lot in the city center, which had to look like a joke to anyone who’d ever stepped foot in Springfield or Chicago. A car even as little noticeable as theirs going in circles around the town wouldn’t be the definition of discreet, in the apparent desert that was Palmer. Given how small the town was, it was best to go on foot.

After a while, the two brothers stopped for coffee at one of the diners they’d spotted, to look the part of visitors just passing through.

“You were right,” Lincoln sighed. “He must have just changed the license plates here and went on his way. I can’t see an agent from a criminal organization living in a place like this.”

“But he wouldn’t have taken Sara where he lived, would he?”

Lincoln shrugged. “Still, this doesn’t fit the profile. No remote cabin in the wood, no isolated houses. The habitations are all tenements. That means neighbors.”

“We agreed he might have a soundproof apartment.”

“Yeah, but –” Lincoln didn’t finish. Michael already knew what he meant to say. That this tiny, somewhat charming town, where everyone had a smile for you if you made eye-contact longer than two seconds, just didn’t give you kidnapping vibes.

“Maybe this town is a dead end,” Michael said. Lincoln had started nibbling at the cinnamon cookie that had been served with his coffee. “But hear me out for a minute. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought.”

“Shocking.”

“And it occurred to me that this must have come as a surprise to them.”

“What are you talking about?”

Michael sometimes forgot to give context along with his deductions, like it just slipped out of his mind that he and Lincoln didn’t share a single thinking process.

“Those company men. Whoever they are. They must have expected a staunch Republican like Governor Tancredi would vote against gun reform, no?”

Lincoln shrugged. “Maybe.”

“What was your reaction when you found out about it?”

“Dude, I barely know the name of our sitting president.”

That had to be an exaggeration but Lincoln made his point. He’d never been much interested by politics.

“Okay, well, what I’m trying to say is that a kidnapping isn’t what you want to do when you’re a secret organization invisibly trying to shape the political landscape. Kidnappings are messy. They make a lot of people angry.”

“Sara just has her father. And if you ask me, he isn’t nearly angry enough.”

“That’s not the point.”

Michael trapped the ridge of his nose between his thumb and index. The ambient chatter inside the diner was overly loud to his ears. He had to peel layer after layer of the outside world to get back to his thought; always, he imagined returning to a cavern with walls made of flesh and brain tissue.

“They rushed this,” Michael said. “They must have, or they would have come up with a cleaner way of persuading Frank.”

“So,” Lincoln frowned, “let me get this straight. Since this whole thing started, you’ve been saying these guys are pros, like they must be ten steps ahead of us. And now, you’re saying they’ve made a mistake?”

“They are pros, and they will have been careful about this. I just don’t think it’s something they planned in the long run.”

“What difference does it make?”

Michael looked up at him. “We’re talking about secret agents, right?”

“Right.”

“Surely, they’ve got a hidden identity. An uninteresting cover.”

Lincoln considered this and repeated, “Right.”

“Let’s focus on the man who made the phone call to Frank. Let’s call him – X. Well, X can’t be of any interest to society. On paper, he’s got to lead a life as uneventful as possible.”

“And you’re thinking – maybe that’s the place to be leading such a life.”

“Maybe. If I’m right, and Frank’s refusal to oppose gun reform took them by surprise – what would they have done? Picked one of their best agents, because they want this done right.”

“X.”

“X,” Michael agreed. “Now, where does X take the governor’s daughter? What’s the next best thing to a cabin in the woods? He can’t just rent some motel room, somewhere. He wants to be in control of his environment. Maybe this kidnapping is going to drag on, maybe he’s going to have to make the woman scream to get a reaction from her father.”

“Jesus, Mike.”

“Maybe he thinks of his apartment – soundproof – where all the neighbors know only his alias, where he feels safest. He doesn’t kidnap people all that often. And really, X is just like anybody else. When he’s out of his comfort zone, he wants to feel safe.”

Lincoln waited. Digested the information.

“Linc,” Michael said, “let me ask you one thing. What was your first thought when you saw this town?”

“That it wasn’t the sort of place where people kidnapped women.”

“There you go.”

Lincoln laughed. “So, because it doesn’t look the part – you’re saying it might be the real thing?”

Michael shrugged, but didn’t manage to look casual. His eyes never left his brother’s. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter. By the way, I don’t mean disrespect to small towns – I’m from a town smaller than most people can imagine, so really ;-) not a condescending city girl. Take care!


	7. Chapter 7

1

The sound of a telephone ringing was enough these days to scare Frank Tancredi half to death. Maybe it would last, even after the kidnapping. A kind of post-traumatic stress symptom. Frank pictured himself in a room halfway between a shrink’s office and an AA meeting, possibly because he unconsciously associated his daughter with both.

What if Sara didn’t get out of this alive?

Lincoln Burrows’ warning snaked back into his mind.

Would Frank ever hear the ring of a telephone that didn’t seem to tell him _, You let your daughter die, you let your daughter die_.

Frank looked at the caller ID. He was at home, alone, in his study. He identified the number as the kidnapper’s and became livid.

The last time they had talked had not gone well. Frank had done as the brothers asked and tried to stall for time. If only the company gave him more time, his veto on the reform bill would feel so much more plausible. But Frank had been a politician for too long not to be able to tell when the person he was talking to was getting the wrong impression.

Those damned brothers. They were supposed to tell him what to do in order to get Sara back alive, not give him things to say that would anger the people who had her.

Frank was too proud to think they had told him how to get her back, and he simply hadn’t listened because it implied complying with her kidnapper’s demands.

He needed someone to blame, and was in too much distress already for that someone to be himself.

Frank picked up the phone. There was nothing else to do. Part of him knew that this was wrong; it was too early. He had talked with the kidnapper only hours ago. He wished the brothers could be in this room with him, that they hadn’t gone to check this small town after all. That he didn’t have to do this alone.

His hand trembled as he swiped the RECEIVE CALL button.

“Hello?”

“Frank,” the voice of the kidnapper was like spiders down his spine.

Silence set in. Frank realized the man was expecting him to talk, and rage flooded his system at how degrading it was to be at his mercy. Thoughts flew into his mind and out of it just as suddenly, so it was like he’d never had them. _I should have never had a daughter. I should have lost her as I lost her mother: a tragic passing, beyond my control_.

“Is everything okay?” Frank managed.

“I’m glad you asked, sir. I was going to wait until our next phone call tomorrow, but I’ve been giving our last conversation a lot of thought. If I’m going to be honest, I find it – irking. You don’t mind my saying so?”

“Of course not.”

_I should have been one of those childless politicians. Spinsters don’t do good, but widowers get by. They would have assumed my wife couldn’t have children. No one would have thought less of us for it._

To have a child momentarily felt to Frank like the most absurd of ideas.

Creating something you were bound to love, something completely independent from you that could cause you harm by harming itself or getting harm’s way –

Absurd. Cruel.

“Good. I’ve talked to your daughter about it – she’s a very good listener, isn’t she?”

Frank spoke through ground teeth, “Uh – thank you.”

The man laughed. “You don’t have an opinion? Maybe I’ve spoken with her more these past few days than you have in a whole year. Maybe you and your daughter aren’t that close, Governor. Would you say? I’ve asked her, but ultimately it’s what _you_ think that matters, isn’t it?”

Frank felt at a complete loss. Words were passing him by like drifting pieces of woods down a greyish river.

“I don’t – I, eh –”

“You don’t know.”

“Just – what do you want me to say?”

“You know what I want from you, Frank.” The voice darkened. “I’ve been very plain with you. Don’t act confused. Earlier, you were confident enough to suggest we give you _more_ time. That wasn’t too smart. I didn’t like you overconfident, but I like you less as a stammerer.”

Urges for violence had never been part of Frank’s emotional reactions. Those he experienced surprised him now so, he forgot to feel anger. Images of brains splattering walls, a face disappearing into red mush.

“Do you know why?” The man asked. “Because it’s not what you _should_ feel, if you planned on doing everything we asked. Overconfidence suggests bluff. Your present reaction – that suggests fear. Why are you afraid, Governor? Aren’t you going to ensure your daughter comes to no harm?”

“I – you son of a bitch – of course I am.”

That was the best Frank could do in his state of turmoil. The kidnapper sighed. Being called a son of a bitch didn’t seem to throw him off one iota. “I want to believe you. Do you believe him, Sara?”

Frank’s heart froze up. He realized part of himself already believed he had killed his daughter.

“Mmm.” The voice said, as if Sara’s answer had made him pensive.

Frank heard himself say, “I want to talk to her.” He couldn’t wish the words back. It felt like a necessity.

There was silence. Frank expected the kidnapper to sweep away the request with his chilling laughter. _Now, you hardly deserve that, Frank, do you?_

Instead, he said, “In a minute. First, I want to hear you say we understand each other.”

“I – we do.”

“Two days from now, during your speech, you’re going to veto the bill on gun reform.”

“Yes.”

“No. I want you to say the words.”

Frank felt exasperated then scared. _He wants me to say the words because he’ll know if I’m lying._

“I’ll veto the bill,” he said. “I’ll ruin my career. I’ll put on a tutu and do a little dance, I’ll do whatever the hell you want, is that good enough for you?”

Frank caught his breath. He hoped anger would mask whatever the kidnapper was searching for in his voice.

There was a click at the other end of the line. For a moment, Frank thought the man had hung up on him.

Then he heard Sara’s voice, “Hi dad.”

2

She couldn’t screw this up.

Sometimes, when it’s a matter of life and death, the imperative is strong enough that you don’t _think_ of screwing up. Your body forgets it’s even an option. You pick up the scalpel and your hand should tremble as it dives into the intricacy of flesh and blood vessels and organs, but it doesn’t.

If Sara could perform open-heart surgeries and not kill her patients, surely she could go through this one conversation with her dad without screwing up.

It was her life on the line.

If she said the wrong word, allowed tremor into her voice –

“Hi dad.”

She could feel Lance’s eyes on her, scanning for cracks.

Her voice was confident, somewhat cynical. After months of sobriety, she lapsed back into that old persona without difficulty. The girl who didn’t mind so much if she OD’ed and died before reaching thirty. It’d suck, but it was part of the risks.

Right now was just like that.

Her father was stabbing the syringe in the noodle-shaped vein inside her arm, and her job was not to panic, to pretend he was just putting her to sleep.

“Sara,” she heard the fear in his voice. Idiot. Fear would get her killed. “Are you –”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Really, I just watch a lot of TV and get some rest. I’ve been overworking at the hospital, anyway. I needed the time off.”

Her face burned under Lance’s stare.

She was so focused on trying to send her father the message, she thought her brain might burst.

_Just catch my drift, dad. Let’s play this like it’s a nasty time to get over with, like my life’s not in danger, like you’d do anything to save me._

“Are you –” Her father started. She wanted to think his voice was a little surer. “Unharmed?”

“Perfectly unharmed.”

“They’re treating you right? Feeding you right?”

“The food’s fine.”

A thought flashed into her mind.

Such a wild risk, yet she had to take it. If she didn’t sprinkle clues into her talk, she would die in forty-eight hours. How tempting it was to just lie low, to wait for that deadline to arrive without taking the smallest chance of making her kidnapper suspicious.

But she had to assume that if her father didn’t intend to do as Lance’s people had asked, then he was at least trying other measures to save her life.

She had to help him out as much as she could.

She forced out a chuckle. Her old addict-cynicism fit like a charm. “It doesn’t change much from usual.”

Lance’s eyes didn’t suddenly become sharper. He didn’t pierce laser-holes into her skull or put an end to the conversation.

If people searched her apartment, they’d find dozens of bills for _Freshly_ meals. Knowing that her kidnapper bought her meals from the same company might narrow down their search a little. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could give them.

She threw herself into conversation to drown that crucial piece of information. “You don’t have to worry, dad. I’m all right.”

An icy cold spread through her body as Lance’s hand closed around her shoulder. Fear black as midnight opened up inside her and she tried to bury it as she met Lance’s eyes. There was that ever-friendly smile on his lips. He spoke softly, “Remember what we said about getting the message to sink in?”

Sara swallowed.

_It’s all right it’s all right he doesn’t suspect yet he does I’m going to die._

“You just have to do everything they tell you,” she said. “I know you’re afraid they’ll kill me anyway.” That was a good way to excuse Frank’s behavior. “But they won’t. If they did, you’d have nothing to lose, and you could become a problem. If you give them what they want, you’ll get what you want. It’s just – business.”

“Wow,” Lance said.

Sara’s eyes burned into his.

“Isn’t your daughter something, Governor? You know, I haven’t found myself in that situation too many times, but I’m pretty sure usually it’s not the kidnapped daughter who does the reassuring.”

Frank’s voice hardened at the other end of the line. _Good_ , Sara thought. _Let us all go back to our precut roles, the hostage and the kidnapper and the angry father_.

“If you so much as touch her –”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Governor.” Lance removed his hand from Sara’s shoulder and gave her a look, like they were both in on the same joke.

It was a good thing he’d interrupted Frank in the middle of his threat. Sara didn’t think he had the imagination to finish it.

“Like your daughter said. You get what you want. We get what we want. Everybody wins.” Lance’s smile widened. “Sounds good?”

“Yes,” Frank’s tremulous voice over the phone.

There was a while of silence, and Sara repressed an eye-roll when Lance’s gaze indicated he wanted her to say it, too.

“Yes,” she said. The word tasted like rape.

“Yes,” Lance repeated, then hung up the phone. “That went well, didn’t it?”

Sara didn’t answer, didn’t move.

Sometimes faces tell the truth, and she was afraid hers was doing just that at the moment, saying, _Someway or other I’ll kill you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please share your thoughts in the comment section and leave kudos if you’ve enjoyed the chapter. Take care!


	8. Chapter 8

1

“Sir, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! Let me speak to your brother.”

Lincoln sighed, before giving Michael a weary look. It was the same look he gave their parents when they said he was _too young_ to babysit his little brother, meaning _too unreliable_.

“It’s for you,” he handed Michael his phone.

They were back at the small parking lot in the city center. Michael sat inside the car and waited until Lincoln had joined him, with all the car doors closed, before he spoke.

“You shouldn’t have called, Governor. We established there was a risk the kidnappers were listening to your calls –”

“I’m calling from a payphone, goddamn it.”

“It isn’t necessarily safer,” Michael said. “Supposing they’re tapping your calls, they might also be keeping an eye on you.”

“Well, I needed to talk to you and you’re still in that godforsaken town in the middle of nowhere!”

Michael licked his lips. Judged on Frank’s reaction when he had been talking to Lincoln, he thought it wiser to avoid repeating the same piece of advice. It was true, though. Frank Tancredi needed to calm down. If the kidnappers saw him, talking agitatedly to someone at a payphone…

Michael needed to be calm enough for them both. He needed to make sure Frank got back into his car and out of sight as fast as possible.

“All right, Governor. Talk to me.”

“The kidnappers called.”

Michael and Lincoln exchanged a look. Though the call wasn’t on speaker mode, Frank was talking loud enough that Lincoln could hear what he was saying perfectly well.

“Already?” Lincoln said. “But they called this morning –”

“They know something’s not right,” Frank said. “It’s the only reason!”

“No, it’s not.” Michael interrupted. “Governor, please listen to me carefully. You’re overwrought. You’re going through something extremely stressful, and it’s possible you aren’t reading this right. You did record the phone call, like you did with the first one?”

There was a while of silence. Michael didn’t breathe. A woman’s life was on the line, and if her father screwed it all up by losing his nerve –

“Yes,” Frank said.

Michael nodded. “Good. You need to send it to me as soon as possible.”

“Can’t you listen to it when you get back to Chicago?”

“I can’t afford to wait that long. You’re going to create an email address and use it to send me the audio file. Can you do that, Governor?”

“I – yes. You’re coming back soon, though?”

“As soon as I can.”

They ended the call.

Michael’s eyes locked with his brother’s, who was looking very red. Fat drops of perspiration pearled down his temples. It always took Lincoln a lot of effort to keep his temper in check.

“I don’t believe this,” he said. “ _He’s_ going through a stressful time?”

His fist crashed against the dashboard.

“Lincoln,” Michael said, “I’m going to suggest you take your own advice and calm down.”

“If he’s been seen going into that payphone, his daughter could _die_.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Michael could see that he did, but the frustration was too much for him to bite back on it. “ _Fuck_ ,” Lincoln said. “Fucking hell.”

“Are you done?”

Lincoln punched the dashboard again. “Yeah.” He took deep breaths, his nostrils flaring like a dragon’s. “We can’t leave the governor alone.”

“I agree.”

“So, it’s back to Chicago, is it?”

“For you,” Michael said.

Lincoln tilted his head. “You’re not coming with me?”

“I’m not done with this town.”

“Come on, Mike. You have nothing on this place except for a hunch.”

“Not a hunch. Instinct.”

Lincoln shrugged, as if to say, _tomato, tomato_. Which he might have said, if a young woman’s life hadn’t been hanging in the balance, momentarily ruining his mood for trite expressions.

“We’ve seen nothing suspect here,” Lincoln said. “We haven’t even seen the car. It suggests the kidnappers just stopped here to change license plates then moved on.”

“I know what it suggests,” Michael said. “But I think there’s something here, and it’d be dangerous for me to get back to Chicago so soon.”

Lincoln thought for a while. Ultimately, there was nothing to do but let Michael have his way. “All right. You can keep the car. I’ll ride back to Chicago with the train.”

2

Michael was alone in the car when he played the recording of Frank’s conversation with his daughter and her kidnapper. Looking closely at his face, you wouldn’t have thought he was angry. Lincoln used to tease him about this. “You know what Mom says?” Lincoln asked him one day, when they were both in their teens. “That I should be more like you, keep my emotions _under the surface_.” Lincoln had chuckled goodheartedly. “She calls you an iceberg, man. Ten percent above the water, all the rest underneath. Except that’s not really true, is it? You’re _all_ underwater, Mikey.”

Had that made Michael smile? He could remember the conversation, but not precisely what his reaction had been. Back then, he and Lincoln didn’t get along as well as they did now. He could never tell for sure when his older brother was making fun of him.

One thing was sure. Listening to the talk between hostage, father and kidnapper, Michael felt as angry as he ever had.

The girl’s bravery under the threat of her own death. The act she put on – yes, he could tell she was acting. Her tone was different from how she had sounded, just this morning.

During the first conversation with her father, Sara had been professional. Saying what was expected of her, holding herself together. Had she been scared? Of course. Michael thought any sane person would be. But there had been a turn in her voice, during the second phone call. There, she sounded confident. Comforting. She had taken control over her father – Michael cursed. If he could hear it, then her kidnapper might. It was clear as rainwater to Michael that Sara had realized her survival was in her own hands, and not her father’s.

“She’s clever,” he said, alone in the driver’s seat. He hadn’t moved in the last hour, as he played the recording over and over. Michael was used to talking to himself. Before he and Lincoln warmed up to each other in adulthood, the most profound conversations Michael ever had had been with himself. “But maybe her kidnapper is clever, too.”

That was a strong possibility. He didn’t sound like an idiot, though he did sound, as Lincoln might have put it, _obnoxious as fuck_.

Michael could understand Frank’s anger. It was his only defense against the idea that this man could subject his daughter to nameless torments, and that he _would_ do it, if he learned about Frank’s true intentions.

That he would take such great risks with his daughter’s life escaped Michael’s moral code, but not his understanding. All his life, Michael had watched people behave with a baffling lack of compassion. It unsettled him when he was little, and it still did. This was why he had become, in Lincoln’s terms, _all underwater._ Michael didn’t have the option of letting his emotions surface. He was _always_ upset.

The voice the kidnapper, chilling in its casualness, upset him especially. Maybe it explained why it took him such a long time to grasp the full meaning of Sara’s words, as she said, _It doesn’t change much from usual._

Michael put the recording on pause. Now he had picked it up, he could hear how hesitant her breath was before she said the words. Simple words. Why would she debate over saying them? If she was just making conversation, trying to make her father feel better –

_“The food doesn’t change much from usual.”_ Michael said the words to himself, until he was convinced this was no random remark. She had sprinkled breadcrumbs for him to find. “Clever,” he said, almost laughing. “Clever, really clever.”

He took his cell phone and called Lincoln, who picked up right away, “Hello?”

“Hi, Linc. Are you home yet?”

“Almost. Is there something you need?”

“Drive back to Sara’s apartment.”

He didn’t mention Lincoln should use the same precautions as they had last time. Not using his police car, wearing unnoticeable clothes, and making sure he wasn’t being followed. Lincoln might not know when to hold his tongue, he knew when to keep his head down.

“Why?” Lincoln’s voice spiked up. “What did you find?”

“I think she tried to give us a clue. Just go. Call me when you’re there.”

3

Most policemen Lincoln knew liked to brag about their moral compass, but Lincoln never took part in such talks. Maybe that was because he had been flirting with crime before he became a cop. In any case, he didn’t whine when the job put him in what his colleagues called a _grey area_. He didn’t shy away from tough decisions, and yeah, occasionally, he had to hold back from handing out free punches to particularly twisted scumbags.

Yet he wasn’t a big fan of what his little brother asked him to do that evening.

“Do _what_?”

“Go through the trash,” Michael’s voice was calm as ever over the phone.

“Eh – you want to explain why I need to do that?”

“Don’t tell me _you_ ’re grossed out.”

“Not by trash, no.”

It was rather the idea of invading the woman’s privacy that Lincoln found repulsive. Nothing allows you a glimpse into a person’s life like trash. That’s where everything you don’t want people to know about ends up. Used condoms, empty medicine boxes, beer cans. But there were no such things in Sara’s trash.

_The woman doesn’t live much at home_ , Lincoln reckoned. _Must be married to her job_.

“You want to tell me what I’m looking for?” Lincoln said, when he was on his knees, fishing through detritus with the one hand, holding his phone with the other.

“Takeaway boxes,” Michael answered. “It’s really important. Can you find any?”

“Uh – yeah.”

If he had been able to see Michael face to face, Lincoln was sure his brother’s eyes would have flared to life like he’d been delivered an electric shock. “What company?”

Lincoln turned the box around until he could read the name. “Freshly,” he said.

“Are there many boxes?”

Lincoln fished around some more. “Yeah. Like, three or four.” He heard his brother’s sigh over the phone. “Now, do I get to know what this means?”

“It means I’m looking for a job as a delivery boy,” Michael answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it took me a while to update. I haven’t forgotten about these stories, and I’m also working on the next chapter for Twist of Fate. But I do have a lot of personal projects going on, so I don’t have as much time for the fandom as I would like. Please share your thoughts in the comments section. Take care!

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is different from what I usually do – I was in the mood for something different. Please share your thoughts in the comment section.


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